Nights in Rome
by Petals Open to the Moon
Summary: Venice. Enter a city of mystery, where ancient masonry is as common as the people thronging its crowded squares. Angels reign here, holding the city in their stone fingers. Enter Aro, who has brought his own angel for a night of reveling, passionate fun... *for a friend*


**Nights in Rome **

"_I can remember days of sun _

_We knew our lives had just begun _

_We could do anything_

_We're fearless when we're young_

_Under the moon, address unknown _

_I can remember nights in Rome…" _

_(Petshop Boys; "The Way It Used to Be")_

* * *

She dances into the room, lashes and skirts aflutter. The Italian sun streams through the high windows, casting ribbons of light over her glowing countenance. A marble pillar supports either side of the room. The woman's face reflects the pure whiteness, though her eyes are anything but innocent.

"_Che bellezza!" _

Snapping black fire, she spins again, dress flying. It is an old dress, highly unfashionable for the modern era, but if someone told her she would only laugh. It is bright, if a little gaudy, with shimmering veils attached to the bodice and sleeves so that they whirl about her in a maddened rainbow. The corset binds her already slender waist. Her feet slip from miniature slippers to skip about barefoot on the polished floor. She has drawn stares from Bologna to Venice, and she knows it.

There is a sound at the door. The boy—the little _bambino _with the luggage—is gawking from the doorway.

"That will be all," she laughs, pressing cash into his sweaty palm. He is dazzled by her beauty. She gently but firmly guides him from the room, taking her leave like a grand _Signora. _Finally, they are alone.

She pauses. They?

"_Cara?" _she calls, making her voice too quiet for mortal ears. No need for the hotel staff to come charging in. Their obsequiousness irritates her. Had she not the wealth, the divine beauty, they would not toss her a crumb of their hospitality.

"_Bastardi,"_ she hisses through her teeth.

The door closes softly. Anger dissolves, melting quickly. The woman squeaks in delight before taking the approaching shadow in her arms. His hair, gorgeous and black, flows unbroken over muscular shoulders. He, too, is beautiful. His face is a paradise, illuminating the unbroken, white surface with ruby orbs until she consumes it eagerly.

"You knew it was the right place," she accuses. "You knew it all along."

He laughs at her impish mood. Whether he laughs with her or at her, it matters not. They are in love. It is the old adage.

"You are impetuous, my sweet," he says, tapping her nose. The sunlight plays with these angels of deceit, casting lots on their flawless, glittering forms. The wine is uncorked, the curtains drawn, and a fire is soon roaring despite the heat outside.

"They must think us mad," she giggles, lifting a stockinged foot to the flames.

"No doubt," he replies. His eyes follow the twisting curves, which seem to so sweetly insinuate he lift her skirt a little higher—

She shrieks, darting away from him. The wine slops through her fingers. She licks them, taking care not to mar the pretty fabric. Her mate—we may as well call him Aro—lifts his glass in salute. "Excellent," he says softly. "From yesterday?"

"No, _amore mia._ This morning."

"You _have _been busy."

"Yes, well… I wanted a little something to bring along, and I _know _how you love your vintage fresh."

He smiles, adoring her silently. "The poor fool didn't suffer, did he?"

"Terribly."

"That's my darling."

She relents, lounging on the settee again. He takes her slim foot in his hands, kissing the instep with gentlemanly grace. His hand slides up her ankle, and she protests. "That tickles!"

He laughs at her, replacing endearments with a name. _Sulpicia, _he calls her. It has an alien sound. This is a true child of Italy, dug from the warm, relenting earth before being returned just as suddenly to it. He kisses her, and she preens under his caressing touch with all the willfulness of a _femme fatale. _She is not afraid of him. She is not afraid of anything.

"More, my dear one," she croons, as his tongue finds new solace.

Life for a life, returned to earth. Bread for the ground, and Death for those above. She is dangerous. He knows this, yet adores her still.

She is taunting him. "You need practice, my _angelo." _

"And you, _bambina, _need to learn respect." He bites her—gently.

_"Damn _you!" Her eyes match the wine. Words continue to flow from her lips, cruelly ignored by the modern generation of lovers, yet all the more to be treasured for their beauty. Her hands lift slowly. "How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame…"

"… Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name," he finishes, throwing the line like a barbed arrow.

She is swift. "O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose! That tongue that tells the story of thy days…"

His lips curl. "…Making lascivious comments on thy sport, cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise."

The hiss of his teeth over the second word makes her shiver with pleasure. Eyes glowing at each other, they dance back and forth in a passionate word-play. As pale lips move, we are drawn into their antics, and our breasts heave with a similar feeling. For words read actions, do they not, my sweet little ones?

The fire grows. Shadows lengthen. William's poem unfolds, laid out in new, breathless complexity:

"_How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame _

_Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, _

_Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! _

_O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose! _

_That tongue that tells the story of thy days, _

_Making lascivious comments on thy sport, _

_Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise; _

_Naming thy name blesses an ill report. _

_O, what a mansion have those vices got _

_Which for their habitation chose out thee, _

_Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot _

_And all things turn to fair that eyes can see! _

_Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; _

_The hardest knife ill-us'd doth lose his edge…" _

The fire is groaning, and then crying out as shadows swiftly suck up its light. Sulpicia pants in similar, silent agony, pinned by a god of marble. She has lost. Again. The deity hovers above her, carving his nails deep into the fine floorboards. He is laughing.

"O, what a mansion have those vices got," he teases, drawing a line up her neck.

His wife is not pleased. "Take heed, _dear heart," _she hisses.

The tables have turned, and how deliciously. We are now gazing at the ceiling, staring up through beautiful, dumbstruck eyes. But he is not stunned by surprise—heavens, no. Can one surprise an angel? He is merely aghast at her beauty. Her fingers on his breast create agonies for him. She moves her hand, brushing back her thick hair with a careless movement, and he nearly gasps in pleasure.

Their love is inexplicable. It eludes us completely.

"Take heed, dear heart," he repeats softly.

She kisses him, blinding him momentarily with her thoughts and memories. She takes advantage of his distraction to find the tender, sweet spot above his cheek, just under his left eye. This soft arousal awakens him, and the milky orbs become ravenous.

"And now?" he whispers.

The crimson mouth trembles. "And now…"

He cannot finish his sentence, as his _cara _is impatient to relish what he denies her. The thousandth, perhaps the millionth time she kisses him, but it is like the first for these time-defying creatures. One cannot help but feel jealous of their passion, though we have said it eludes us. Her mate rises, darker than the shadows, to hold her in his violent grip.

"Aro…"

"_Preciosa…"_

They are unclothed now, but it doesn't matter. They are beautiful, like she who posed for the infatuated Botticelli's _"Venus"_, or one of Michelangelo's beloved male nudes. It is a love affair, designed and intended solely for stone. They curl together, pillowed by Sulpicia's marvelous assortment of ribbons and veils. The somber black is Aro's, with scarcely a gold thread to embellish the simple vest. A glint of metal gleams beneath the pile: two crests wink together in the firelight, catching a broken oak and bird's wing. The world has never seen them before. These immortals have their own family, however secluded and feared. It is the crest of blood, of centuries battled and won. The hard ruby in each center is a reflection of such hardness, lurking and dancing beneath the insignia of gold.

But we hardly notice the strange jewelry. Our eyes fasten with burning intensity on the figures, so engaged in passionate play. The fire lends a helping hand to their antics. One screams, the other laughs, and vice-versa. He cooes to her softly afterwards, running his hands through her hair. She never cut it in her girlhood, and it stopped growing when he changed her.

"Do you remember when we met?" he asks softly.

Sulpicia smiles. Ever intuitive, her dark one. "Yes…"

"You were radiant," he continues. "I saw you running down the streets, your feet brown as the cobblestones, and your hair whipping behind you."

"I hated it." She laughs. "My mother would wind it into a thick braid, and the boys of the village would try and pull on it." Her large, dark eyes turn lovingly on him. _"You _were not a boy, _cara mia." _

He feels her body throbbing against him, but his mind persists, holding on to the sweet fantasy. "I could have had any immortal I wanted, yet as a human you were above them all."

"I don't like flattery, Aro."

"Is truth flattery, my love? You were a goddess." He kisses her, breathlessly, just above the delicate line of her collarbone.

"Just a girl…" Sulpicia's voice fades in sweet fantasy, and her lips hover, glowing, on his cheek. "You stole my heart, dearest," she whispers. "Shall I never have it back?"

"You have had it always, my love. My own rests besides yours... bleeding… loving…"

"Blood," she echoes. The word holds strange magic. Her eyes are as two flames, and the greed threatens to devour. "Give me your blood."

Her mate leans forward, the firelight following him. The red blends beautifully with his skin, smooth as a brushstroke, and cold as Winter's parting kiss.

She rises with him. _"Give_ to me, darling," she says relentlessly.

The act is swift, slightly painful, but it is the pain of it that delights. A crimson thread follows his fingers, staining the blue tips shockingly…

Don't turn away, my sensitive ones. How can we, mere mortals, _presume _to understand? It is not evil, my dear little hearts, nor is it perverse. The wildcat at play, the young doe claiming her mate; surely these acts are as raw, as wonderfully fascinating as the one we behold? A blush alights on your fragile cheeks, but I, the writer, cry out in a similar ecstasy, longing only for a master to come and paint these creatures of darkness.

Darkness. But they are in heaven. No heaven without love, no love without life. _And the blood is the life… _

Aro weakens, lips raw and crimson. His vulnerability is delightful for her. She has drunk of his heart, and rejoiced of its still, cold beat. He only has to take from her now. Once finished, she lies beside him, drained by her lover. Her eyes…

"Wicked," he says bluntly. He does not spare her. "Vicious. Conniving. You beautiful, _cruel _little angel…"

"Like so," she sighs. Her fingers, soft as kitten's breath, curl into his flowing locks. She breathes in his scent, humming a little. Crimson orbs sparkle. She is waiting for him to recognize it.

"Jean," she whispers. _"Ah, Jean, je te revois! _I have found you!"

Her lover answers in sighs. "My child, what do you want of me?"

"What do I want? What I want is to tell you that I love you, and that I belong to you… that by the sound of your voice my whole being is held in suspense…"

The opera is _Hérodiade, _by Jules Massenet. It weaves a tragic tale, as all opera librettos do, around the fated John the Baptist and the seductive enchantress who worships him. Sulpicia _is _a Salome of sorts; her soft, velvety thighs lock her lover's hips in place as she sings in his ear:

"_L'amour n'est pas un blasphème! __Love is no blasphemy! It is your _love _I desire. I love you! I would spread the glory of your hair upon your knees, for you alone do I love! O, Jean…" _

"Oh, Aro…" She moans loudly. Their positions are once more reversed. Aro keeps singing, an airy falsetto that whispers down her gleaming skin. At this stage, Jean denies Salome, glorifying the sanctity of God. Aro does not such thing.

"I love you," he murmurs, kissing her throat. "You are my life in death."

"And you mine," she replies.

His fingers rest on her left breast, licking the white flesh thoughtfully. "Sully?" he whispers.

"Mm?"

"Have we roused all of Rome yet, do you think?"

Her cheeks flame wickedly. _"Lets!" _

Her mouth finds his, and a delicious moan rakes up his chest. _"Ah… piccola…"_

And so it begins again. We will leave them to it, dear readers, and seek solace of our own. One can only linger on such fancies for so long, after all.

_Good night, little ones…_

* * *

_She is evil and beautiful bled into one_

_She is darkness that shines like the day_

_She is hatred I feel for the merciless sun_

_But it is with my heart she will play_

_She flies in a rage; is perfection in ice_

_Yet her lips are unbearably sweet_

_She is everything that I despise in a soul_

_But my own soul is laid at her feet_

_She isn't an angel that touches the saints_

_But there's no one I cherish so well_

_She's evil, deplorable, vicious, and yet_

_I am living with heaven in hell_

_(poem by author)_

_*****For mon amie, Athena/Ya-Chi. **_

_**Love you!*****_


End file.
